Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits, #1)(87)

I did. I understood all too well, as much as I hated it. This was why we ignored each other. When she walked away the first time, my damn heart ruptured and I swore I’d never let it happen again. Like an idiot, here I was setting off explosives.

Both of my hands wove into her hair again and clutched at the soft curls. No matter how I tightened my grip, the strands kept falling from my fingers, a shower of water from the sky. I rested my forehead against hers. “I want you to be happy.”

“You, too,” she whispered. I let go of her and left the main office. When I first connected with Echo, I’d promised her I would help her find her answers. I was a man of my word and Echo would soon know that.





Echo

Nerves took dominion over my body and I concentrated on not peeing my pants. My bladder shrank to twelve sizes smaller than normal and sweat soaked the armpits of my cotton short-sleeved shirt. I was sure I looked excellent.

A slimy cold boa constrictor wrapped around my heart and squeezed—the scars. I wore short sleeves most of the time now and was getting better at not obsessing about my arms … until someone stared, anyway. Sure, she knew about them, but seeing them could be difficult. I sighed heavily as I parked under the large oak trees. Too late to head home and change clothes now.

She stood by Aires’ grave. I kept my eyes to the ground and counted each step from the car. Somewhere between steps three and five, adrenaline began tickling my bloodstream, making me feel like a balloon floating away. The April Saturday was warm, but my skin felt clammy.

I’d asked to see her, proving I’d officially lost my freaking mind. Tucking my hair behind my ear, I stopped. Aires’ grave lay between us. My mother on one side and me on the other.

“Echo,” she whispered. Tears glistened in her green eyes and she took a step toward me.

My heart rammed through my rib cage and I took an immediate step back. For a second, I considered running and struggled hard to remain where I stood.

Mom retreated and put her palms in the air in a gesture of peace. “I just want to hug you.”

I considered her request for a brief moment. Hugging my mom should be natural, an automatic reaction. I swallowed, shoving my hands in my back pockets. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

She nodded weakly and glanced at Aires’ tombstone. “I miss him.”

“I do, too.”

All of my memories of my mother didn’t fit the woman before me. I remembered her as a youthful beauty. Now she rivaled my father. Crow’s-feet were embedded around her eyes and lines framed the sides of her mouth. Instead of the naturally wild, curly red hair I remembered, she wore it flat-iron straight.

During her highs, my mother had appeared to walk on air. In her lows, she clung to the ground of the earth. Standing in front of me, she was neither high nor low. She just was.

She seemed almost normal. Like any other aging woman grieving at a cemetery. In this moment my mom wasn’t some out-of-control superwoman or a dangerous foe. She was just a woman, human, almost relatable.

Relatable or not, every instinct inside of me screamed to run. My throat swelled and I fought the compulsion to dry heave. My options were faint or sit. “Do you mind sitting down? Because I need to.”

My mother gave a brief smile and nodded while she sat. “Do you remember when I taught you and Aires to make bracelets and necklaces out of clover?” She picked a few of the small white flowers and knotted them together. “You used to love wearing them as tiaras in your hair.”

“Yeah,” was my only answer. Mom enjoyed the feel of the grass on her bare feet so she never forced Aires or me to wear shoes. The three of us loved being outside. She continued to weave the clover into a single strand as the awkwardness grew.

“Thanks for texting me back. Which letter did you get?” I’d purposely visited art galleries where my mother had once sold her paintings, leaving a letter for her at each one.

“All of them. It was Bridget, though, who convinced me to come.”

A quick spark of pain pricked my stomach. My letter hadn’t been enough to convince her?

“Do you come to visit Aires often?” I asked.

Her hands stilled. “No. I don’t like the thought of my baby in the ground.”

I hadn’t meant to upset her, but Resthaven had seemed safe. If someone spotted us together then we could say we just happened to stop by at the same time. No one could accuse her of breaking the restraining order.

I should just ask her about that night and leave, but watching her, seeing her … I realized I had so many more questions. “Why didn’t you call me back over Christmas?”

Last December, the grief of losing Aires became so unbearable that I called her. I’d left a message, giving her the number to my cell, to the landline. I’d told her what times to call. I never heard back. Then of course, in January, Dad changed the number to the landline, then my cell in February.

“I was having a rough time, Echo. I needed to focus on myself,” she said simply and without apology.

“But I needed you. I told you that, right?” At least I thought I had left it in the message.

“You did.” She continued to link one clover to another. “You’ve grown into a beautiful young woman.”

“Except for the scars.” I bit my tongue the moment the comment slid out. Mom stayed silent and my foot rocked back and forth. I yanked a large blade of grass from the ground and methodically peeled it apart. “I don’t know much about the restraining order. Surely it’s gotta end soon.”